Friday Fun: Quiet Time to Write

It’s been far too busy and sociable this past week or so, and now it’s time to focus on writing once more. So here are some places where ‘escape’ is the name of the game and SO much writing would get done in close proximity to nature…

Dandelion House by Terunobu Fujimori, from Pinterest.
Dandelion House by Terunobu Fujimori, from Pinterest.
Eastate Treehouse, from Buzzfeed.
Eastate Treehouse, from Buzzfeed.
Floating island in France from France Canopy and Stars website.
Floating island in France from France Canopy and Stars website.
Treehouse Beverley Hills, image by Joe Fletcher, from Architecture Now.
Treehouse Beverley Hills, image by Joe Fletcher, from Architecture Now.
Watamu Treehouse in Kenya, from holidaylettings.com
Watamu Treehouse in Kenya, from holidaylettings.com
Wilkinson residence, from thatoregonlife.com
Wilkinson residence, from thatoregonlife.com

 

 

The Source and Now the Final

‘Let’s go to the Allondon’s source!’ they cried and I

expect a trickle or gentle gush, a scene of birth.

Not a waterfall pummelling the mossy rocks then

pausing in a pool to gather breath before

thundering in confidence across pastures, between trees.

It’s March and snows are melting, you tell me that

in summer it slows to suppuration.

So I wonder what you think of the slowing of my seasons

and stumble in my gait.

Photo from ain-tourism.com
Photo from ain-tourism.com

The river Allondon is unusual: it springs out of the ground as a waterfall, so is already a considerable stream as it rustles and hustles and meanders its way through the Pays de Gex to join the Rhone. I am linking this poem to the wonderfully diverse offerings on display at Open Link Night for dVerse Poets.

Haibun: Fear of Sparrows

This is my first attempt at a haibun, a form that I have seen quite a few of my fellow poets attempt at the dVerse Poets Pub. So tonight, for Open Link Night with Grace, I thought I’d give it a whirl myself. Not quite right for the Dog Days of Summer prompt earlier this week, but moving in that direction…

You trill and chirp, flutter hither and thither with worms, blades of grass, twiglets in your beak. The tree branches shiver in anticipation of your landing. All hops and thrills, you sway and tilt your winsome head sideways with cheeky flourish.

I so want to make friends. But can you not feel the menace of our feline, belly crouched below the green line? Perhaps we should have fastened bells to her collar, or perhaps she’ll be too slow. I know we’ve let the grass grow too long: one swift spring and your family could be decimated.

Small but persistent
They play happy families –
Sparrows on my sill.

Tree Poetry

Abhra Pal is hosting us over at dVerse Poets Pub and inviting us to write about trees, to think, be and feel tree. I always have to think about Ogden Nash’s tongue-in-cheek approach to tree poetry:

I think that I shall never see 
a billboard lovely as a tree. 
Perhaps, unless the billboards fall, 
I’ll never see a tree at all.

TreeFor a diverse and interesting take on this prompt, please visit the other poets at the Pub. But here is a rough writing exercise about the tree in my garden. And no, I don’t know what kind of tree it is. I told you I am the world’s worst gardener, right?

 

I’m not good with names,

but I never met a tree I didn’t like.

This one is a toddler:

it greens so easily at the first blush of spring.

Shot up a metre when I looked away,

no longer hugged by the window frame.

Unruly and curly,

messy and fussy,

now a badly coiffed teenager windswept on all sides,

then a woman’s cascading morning glory,

promise of nights to come.

Leaves are gnarled and twisted too,

they sing the blues, over smoky-voiced guitars in distant jazz-clubs.

Skinny branches twist in painful shapes,

not quite weeping willow.

They arch up against gravity

with just occasional droops.

A fearless tree, shaking its mane

against a backdrop of mountains.

A sapling with just as much claim to eternity

as the Jurassic stones behind it.

 

 

Eagles

Courtesy of www.deshow.net
Courtesy of http://www.deshow.net

Becoming more experimental in my old age… This is a writing exercise, a sort of prose poem based on free association with certain words or concepts. Very rough, but it was fun to do. I’m linking it to the Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub – join us for drinks, fun, good humour and lots of great (and very varied) poetry.

Wingspan: endless.

Eyesight: acute.

Disposition: heartless.

Victims: too numerous to mention.

Wanted in several countries as symbol of boldness, greatness, goal-orientation.  A menace to one’s enemies, totemic of clear-sightedness.

But, locking your gaze onto a distant target, what might you be missing in the quiet corners, the nooks of your eyes?

Sudden swoop of power, then a lifetime of solitude on some bald crag of unnamed rock. Pecking at unwanted liver of a chap who never understood just why he was being punished.

Give me the magpie any day. Distracted, thieving, but always on the lookout for ideas, objects, friends.  A life of peripheral vision.

 

Summer Idyll

Copyright: M. Thomson, www.bbc.co.uk
Copyright: M. Thomson, http://www.bbc.co.uk

Summer at last and the heat is going to our heads over at dVerse Poets Pub.  Here is a remembrance of things past and a vision of things future.

Our summers no longer the buzz-filled lolling

in hay mounds

or stooping for details

and blow-squeak through grass stalks.

No more lifting our gaze for cloud-naming, tongue-hopping,

when laid-back wonders were open to all

and the neighbours’ cherries the sweetest by far.

 

Now lazy means each one tucked snug on our planet

in a bubble of tablets and phones,

convinced we’re connecting

enthralled to go global

we feel the roar and hum of the entire world in our palms.

 

While bees expire by installments around us…

Dawn Chorus

I was up early today and opened my window to the most amazing, glorious sound.  And of course tree blossoms of any kind always, always remind me of Japan, hence the variations on the haiku format below.

寒紅梅

Curlicued dawn calls.

My heart fills: joyful chorus

of effort not mine.

 

Only in our dreams

Do birds contemplate:

Singing, breathing become one.

 

Oh, to fly into summer

on the wings of mellow tunes,

nestle in pink buds!